She doesn’t. Her hands reach for my belt, but I catch her wrists.
“If you want this to be good,” I keep my voice low, controlled, “you do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re done.” Simple. Direct. “I don’t waste time on negotiations.”
She studies me for a heartbeat, then nods.
“Strip.”
She hesitates just long enough to gauge my seriousness, then lets her dress pool at her feet. Lace and skin and vulnerability. She doesn’t try to cover herself. That willingness tells me everything—she needs this as much as I do.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, using my body to cage her against the wall. “Don’t move them.”
The command makes her shiver. Good. She wants to surrender control. I want to take it.
Control is everything—in demolition, in combat, in this. Every touch is measured and deliberate. Every response is catalogued and utilized. I work methodically, learning her reactions like memorizing a schematic.
Her breath catches when I find the spot below her ear—that precise junction of nerve endings most people miss. She arches when my free hand traces her ribs, counting each one like reading braille. I catalog every shiver, every gasp, building a mental map of her responses.
This is what I do best. Two things in life respond to absolute precision: explosives and the female form. Both require total focus, perfect timing, and the confidence to commit fully. Half measures get people killed in combat and disappointed in bed.
I work her body like defusing a bomb in reverse—finding every wire, every connection, knowing exactly which sequence will detonate. The spot where her neck meets her shoulder is the one that makes her knees buckle. The pressure point on her hip sends electricity straight to her core. I find a rhythm that takes her from zero to desperate in forty-five seconds flat.
“There,” she gasps. “Right there.”
I maintain the exact angle, the exact pressure, the exact speed. No variation. No improvisation. Just ruthless consistency until her whole body goes rigid, then shatters.
The first orgasm tears through her with a strangled cry. I don’t stop, working her through a second one until she’s shaking, gasping.
“Twice,” I murmur against her ear. “As promised.”
She’s liquid against the wall, held up mostly by my grip on her wrists. The power of it—of her complete surrender—satisfies something dark and necessary.
“On your knees.”
She drops instantly, eyes glazed with endorphins and submission. This is what I need. Control absolute. No questions, no trust required. Just simple, mechanical dominance.
I unbuckle my belt. She watches with hungry eyes, already reaching, but I catch her chin.
“Exactly like I say. No improvisation.”
She nods, eager and compliant. I thread my fingers through her hair, controlling pace and depth with the same precision I use setting charges. Shallow, then deep, then holding her still while her throat works around me. The wet heat makes my eyes close involuntarily, but I force them open. Control means awareness. Always.
I watch her surrender to the rhythm I set, measuring my own response, delaying gratification the same way I delay detonation—building pressure, holding, building more. Each stroke calculated to edge closer without tipping over. The tension coils tight in my spine, but I maintain the pace. Steady. Measured. No rushing.
When I finally let go, it’s on my terms. The release hits like a controlled explosion—contained, directed, exactly as planned. My grip tightens in her hair as everything narrows to this singular moment of perfect control over both our bodies.
Just sensation and control.
When I finish, she’s still on her knees, looking wrecked and satisfied. I help her stand, hand her the dress, and put distance between us while she dresses.
“That was incredible,” she says, voice rough. “Maybe we could?—”
“No.” I’m already at the sink, washing my hands with the same thoroughness I use when cleaning explosive residue. Soap, hot water, twenty seconds minimum. “This was exactly what I promised. Nothing more.”
“Come on.” She steps closer, her dress only half-zipped. “That was incredible. You could at least?—”
